


for beautiful you are my world

by blanchtt



Series: i carry your heart with me [2]
Category: Bird Box (2018), Ocean's 8 (2018)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Post-Canon, F/F
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-02-02
Updated: 2019-02-02
Packaged: 2019-10-20 23:08:20
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,607
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17631482
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/blanchtt/pseuds/blanchtt
Summary: There are lots of birds here now, Debbie knows, can look up from where they are in the courtyard at the sky without fear and see bright green and slivers of sunshine, can hear birds among it all, the flutter of little harmless things in vegetation and all different kinds of singing.





	for beautiful you are my world

**Author's Note:**

  * For [asexualizing (Specialcookies)](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Specialcookies/gifts).



> Mixed a little bit of book and movie into this one, but follows what was laid out in [took a long time to make it](https://archiveofourown.org/works/16402931).

 

 

 

 

 

Debbie wonders if they’ll ever forgive her.

 

She picks up Boy, too big for it now, really, sinks back down to the ground with the weight of him and laughs as he sits on top of her, face squished against hers and telling her a story about some other boy he met or a bird he saw.

 

There are lots of birds here now, Debbie knows, can look up from where they are in the courtyard at the sky without fear and see bright green and slivers of sunshine, can hear birds among it all, the flutter of little harmless things in vegetation and all different kinds of singing.

 

“And what else did you do today?” she asks, reaching up to move a strand of his dark hair out of his eyes, because there might not be many children here and they may be all ages but there are just enough classes enough to keep them occupied now that they’re old enough.

 

She’d done her best alone, but staying alive had outweighed times tables and penmanship and interacting with other children, and so now despite how difficult it is she sees them both off four mornings a day. She’d cried into Lou’s dog’s scruffy fur alone their first day, Lou away working with the others helping some goat in a difficult labor.

 

Boy tells her about Leo and Henry and when Debbie gets up it’s with Boy on her back, piggyback style, his arms clasped around her neck, and she carries him here and there, his voice in her ear, the two of them on an adventure they no longer have to close their eyes for.

 

Later, in bed, she sits crossed-legged with Girl in the hollow of her lap, combs fingers through hair soft as silk, sings along as Girl shows her how much of the story of the itsy bitsy spider she’s learned, Hello Kitty held in her hand and rising, climbing, falling, and rising again.

 

She’s had them in her sight or range of hearing their entire lives, and to let go is not easy.

 

“Girl,” Debbie says, but it’s followed by a kiss to the crown of her head, said soft amidst the scent of her daughter, and it’s no longer _girl_ said sharp and to be obeyed but now something between only them because she must share Tammy and Louis with the world, but Girl and Boy are hers alone.

 

 

 

 

 

-

 

 

 

 

 

She finds Dr. Lapham among the blind and sighted who’ve taken refuge within the walls of the old school, startles at the sight of her among the crowd at dinner and then laughs, thankful.

 

“Have I hurt them?” Debbie asks, Dr. Lapham nursing a rare coffee and the two of them sitting outside in the courtyard on a stone bench. The light is faint but enough of it comes from various open doors for Debbie to turn, to see the other woman silhouetted next to her.

 

 _Of course you have_ , Debbie thinks, dark part of her jumping to answer her own question because the proof is there in their names, in their eyes that watch her for her slightest move still, in their sense of hearing sharper than any other child their age.

 

“No.”

 

It’s quiet, metered, and Dr. Lapham raises her cup, takes a sip. No rush to reassure her as if she’s done nothing wrong, but neither does Dr. Lapham stumble on silence before answering, a clear lie. The truth, then, Debbie understands.

 

“Would you…” Debbie starts, grateful, and can’t find the words. She’s always been bad at finding them and better at painting them, and sometimes the lack of brush and canvas and paint balls up like a knot in the back of her throat. The walls and stains of the house at Shillingham Lane had long been painted over with the lovely oil and cheap acrylic paints she’d found foraging, little handprints and drawings among her work as Boy and Girl had grown.

 

“Ridhi,” Dr. Lapham says, and the title and medical office and appointments fall away, leaving only another woman watching her, reaching out for the same thing under a moon they can no longer look at.

 

“Ridhi,” Debbie repeats, because for this she can speak. “It doesn’t have to mean anything religious. But my brother is gone, and so are my parents. I don’t believe in anything anymore, but I don’t want that for them—to not have hope, you know?”

 

Ridhi’s hand is warm around hers, squeezing.

 

“I’d be honored.”

 

 

 

 

 

-

 

 

 

 

 

She throws herself into things, watches quiet and enjoys the noise, the touch, the warmth of living among people again. But there are so _many_ people here, at least in comparison, and after so many years it’s a shock that she reels from at one point, overwhelmed.

 

Their room is locked, only the two of them, Lou’s dog banished outside and Boy and Girl out with Auntie Ridhi petting the new baby calf, the only person other than Lou she truly trusts to watch over them.

 

Lou’s hips are bony under her, but there’s nowhere else she’d rather be at the moment, Lou’s hands running from the small of her back up across her ribs and to her breasts, to brush away her long hair and grasp at her gently.

 

“Beautiful,” Lou says, and in that one word is everything, Debbie guesses, that Lou’s waited to say again for five years, because after that there are no more words, only Lou sitting up and kissing her, her hand on her hip turning her until she slips off and Lou’s above her, propped on an elbow and kissing her, hips between her thighs.

 

And Lou repeats it, _beautiful beautiful beautiful_ as she makes her way down her body, murmurs it around the nipple in her mouth or against the soft plane of her stomach or against the few shimmery streaks left low on her body that run from just below her navel and disappear into dark curls.

 

There is no need to be quiet, no little ears just beyond the door nor _something_ outside listening, and as soon as Lou’s tongue touches her Debbie hears her own gasp, loud to her ears, bites her bottom lip and struggles to stay quiet if only to hear the soft, slick sounds of Lou eager between her thighs.

 

She fails, almost shocked at her own voice, at the gasps and strangled cries and the movement of her body Lou is able to evoke, and when Lou adds another finger Debbie comes, the feeling like a long awaited wave, a warm shiver of pleasure followed by another, hands grasping at Lou’s free hand held flat on her stomach and threading their fingers together.

 

 

 

 

 

-

 

 

 

 

 

“I want another baby,” Debbie says later, the two of them spent and drowsy.

 

She thinks of Robin, sometimes, missing from Lou’s life and hers too now by association, knows why Lou holds Girl or Boy close to herself, high on her hip and watching them with pride and love in her every movement. Lou may not have carried them, but she did not carry Girl and she loves her just as much, indistinguishable from her love for Boy, and knows Lou feels just the same.

 

And Debbie thinks of another child too sometimes, of a boy or a girl with Lou’s eyes or her curls, no matter how impossible it is, at least now, science set back.

 

She breaks from her thoughts, touches Lou lazily, a hand on Lou’s ribs and face nuzzled against her breasts, mouthing at what she can. Lou laughs against her hair, hand on her shoulder blade stroking softly and voice little more than a murmur when she replies.

“Don’t think we’ll have much luck, honey, but I’m game to keep trying.”

 

 

 

 

 

-

 

 

 

 

 

Like before there is always some task in need of doing, and so Debbie helps tend to the gardens.

 

It is summer now and warm and she slips out of bed and away from everyone sleeping still, steps around Lucky and behind the standing screen and undresses down to her drawers and pulls on her pants and a tank top before leaving, ties up her hair and eschews anything else except sandals.

 

Gardening was never something she’d ever tried before, at least not before everything went to hell. But she’d learned at the house on Shillingham Lane, had known from common sense and from _What To Expect When You’re Expecting_ that surviving off canned goods alone was not going to cut it for a grown woman, let alone one feeding two small children.

 

It had been harder and harder to find things, her blind roaming from the home growing in a wider and wider circumference as the children had grown older, until it had only been for the truly necessary things, for a bit of powdered milk or salt or medication. The rest she had learned to grow herself, through trial and error and any hint in a book she could find.

 

Now here there is something to do for everyone. She joins another man and a woman, Marcus and Jacqueline, lets the others show her what to clip with her gardening shears today and how to place the produce in baskets without damaging it, how much to water and how much mulch to add. It all goes to the kitchen, to feed everyone here, and Debbie puts herself to the task single-mindedly, enjoys the sun leaking through the green roof and settling warm on her bare shoulders.

 

It’s past noon when she stops, the others taking a break too for lunch, and she wipes dirt form her hands and forearms, washes her hands and eats with Marcus and Jacqueline and later, wandering with nothing to do, runs across a cluster of children, Girl and Boy among them and Lou in the thick of it all.

 

Remarkably, Lou’s dog Lucky, the one that she had followed years ago, is still alive, though old and slow with arthritis. Unremarkably, its progeny has had a recent litter, meticulously planned, and Debbie finds Boy and Girl and the other children on the floor of the room with Lou, the children making as much noise as the newborn puppies squirming in Lou’s lap, a tiny ball of brown fuzz in Lou’s cupped hands.

 

Boy reaches out and runs fingers gentle over its little back and Girl looks up with a smile that asks everything she doesn’t, and if she can’t keep an eye on them at all times, Debbie knows, then this dog raised up by Lou will.

 

“You want to name him?” Lou asks later, introducing the little thing to her personally once the puppies have been returned to their mother and the kids have dispersed, and Debbie shakes her head, holds the little warm thing against her breast to keep it warm.

 

“Not sure if I’m very good at that,” Debbie admits with a small laugh, and so they let Girl and Boy choose and end up with a dog named Miss Ladybug.

 

 

 

 

 

-

 

 

 

 

 

“They’re doing well,” Ridhi says, means it in more ways than one since she teaches too, and Debbie feels her heart leap, that despite everything she’s done they are not only living but thriving. She looks back over her shoulder from where she and Ridhi are standing outside and into the makeshift classroom, sees Boy and Girl working on something together, pencils moving over paper carefully.

 

“Good,” Debbie breathes, and Ridhi turns to go back in, motions with a hand for Debbie to follow.

 

There are a few other parents or siblings here, collecting their children or helping them with homework within sight of Ridhi still on duty, and Ridhi dips behind her desk, takes something out and turns to give it to Debbie.

 

“Louis asked for them,” Ridhi explains, and Debbie has only to move back a corner of the fabric covering the package to see right away that a the uneven lumpy thing is actually a few miniature bottles of paint, two brushes, and three canvas panels, something she thought she’d never see again.

 

“Ridhi, I can’t,” Debbie protests, doesn’t know where Ridhi got it or how much it cost but it must have cost _something_ , and she moves to hold the package back out but Ridhi shakes her head, puts her hand over it and pushes it back.

 

“Consider it a belated baby shower gift for you.” And she must see the look on her face, because Ridhi adds, “Or if you insist, a birthday gift for my godchildren.”

 

Unlike something for herself, that is something she can’t refuse, and so Debbie nods her thanks, can think of nothing else to say that would do justice to what she feels so tucks the package in the crook of her arm and turns to get Girl and Boy ready to go.

 

 

 

 

 

-

 

 

 

 

 

The rhythm of her life is this now.

 

There is waking and opening her eyes without worry, to Lou’s sleeping face close to hers, Girl at the small of her back kicking in her sleep and Boy curled in Lou’s arms and Miss Ladybug snuffling in her ear. There are no more high-paying scams with Danny in New York City, but there is neither clinging to passing fragments of hope, either, locked away alone.

 

Today there is Ridhi coming over to paint with them, invited yesterday before leaving. There is watching Lou work and lending her a hand with the livestock when she has nothing to do, or Lou watching her work and gardening, too. There is reading, the few books between them all collected in the library, and Girl sitting with Jacqueline, learning how to read words written down in ink as well as in raised letters.

 

There is Boy helping her in the kitchen, part of many hands preparing dinner, in a well-lit room with clean utensils and fresh food. There is herself and Lou helping them with their homework, or when they’ve both wracked their brains only to come up with nothing, finding someone else to help too.

 

(And, whenever it is that they’re alone, there are her lips against Lou in some fashion or another and Lou’s fingers in her, working noises from each other that they’ve never been able to before.)

 

There are her runner beans and peas and tomatoes and peppers and salad leaves that she tends to, rain or shine, and the eggs from Eduardo’s chickens that make their way to the kitchen table, and she sits at breakfast with everyone like she does every day, reaches down under the table and pets Lucky’s broad, greying head that rests on her lap, the old German Shephard sitting begging at her feet.

 

“She only does it because she knows she can get away with it with you,” Lou says knowingly from across her, a chastise without bite, and Debbie knows that, doesn’t feed Lucky anything that dogs can’t eat, of course.

 

But she slips her little bits and pieces, knows she wouldn’t be here without Lucky and neither would Lou or Boy or Girl, says, “Thanks, girl,” as a hot doggy tongue licks the little bit of egg off of her fingers, as Boy knocks over his cup of milk on accident and Girl starts feeding Lucky too and Lou, easygoing, looks at her amidst it all as if she were looking at the stars they used to be able to tilt their heads up and see.

 

The rhythm of her life is this now, and so for someone, Debbie thinks, that had painted herself into a canvas of strangers backlit by darkness, there can have been no sweeter change.

 

 

 

 

 


End file.
